Seal, the
1 Droplets of moisture beaded upon the short glass of scotch. It was half full, as an optimist would say, and his lids were growing heavier with each slow sip. Another damn night, he thought to himself as Helga busied herself cleaning the top of the bar. Another sip was took, and the glass was set down with purpose to gain the thick woman's attention. It wasn't empty, yet, but he was bound and determined for more. "Another for you, Marshal?" "Last one for the night..." he slurred, watching with split vision as his glass was refilled to its brim. Marshal. He was beginning to wonder how much longer he would be able to entertain such a title. Each time he heard it the mantle seemed to weigh upon him a bit more... but it was one that he was determined to wear until he truly believed he could finally set it down. Suffice to say, his shoulders were sore. "Still finding solace at the bottom of a glass, hm?" came a voice, the accent thick and immediately recognizable. "On a good day I never find the bottom..." he responded, glancing to the robed figure now sitting beside him. He knew her immediately. She motioned for a drink to Helga's back for what it was worth, and figured she could just gain the world-of-a-woman's attention soon after. "Would seem to be a good day, then." He did not respond. He simply took the newly filled glass of scotch into hand and took from it a labored sip. "Have you no other words for the last of your blood, cousin?" the figure inquired in her thick accent, folding her hands neatly in her lap. She still smelled of the desert. She reeked of home. His dreary eyes turned to her only to see the side of her shrouded hood. The thought as to what she was doing all this way from home never crossed his mind. Scotch. Gotta love scotch. "Its been a long day..." he defended. "I see," she responded, her words thoughtful and deliberate, "I have come because I felt the seal was weakening." Finally a chord was struck... but he failed to exhibit it. The glass of scotch was found and sipped from again before it was carefully set back upon the bar. She still wasn't looking at him, but, to be fair he still wasn't really looking at her. "Surely you've felt it... Spirit Walker." she added, figuring that he wasn't in the frame of mind to adequately respond. He had felt it. The Shadow Death that had been locked away for the past year was beginning to slip into his dreams. He knew their methods all too well by now, and was hoping that he could contain the leak himself without her intervention. "It is nothing I can't handle..." "Your determination to do things alone is what got you here in the first place." The damn woman. She reminded him more and more of his mother each time she spoke. Fitting, he supposed, as she was the last direct descendant. He took another long sip from his drink, hoping that perhaps in the fog of the spirits he could find clarity. As if. "So what do you suggest we do, then?" he inquired, his brow arched as he glanced to the figure beside him. "You've already taken steps, I see..." she mused, gesturing to the reversed blades now hanging from his hip, "But do you think it will be enough?" "I just thought they looked pretty..." Another long sip was took from his drink. His vision was beyond the point of blurring one thing to the next, and each thought seemed to come slower than the last. Helga's scotch was certainly the best this side of the Dragonspine. "The ritual is not yet complete..." "Then there is still time, no?" he interjected, lifting the glass to his lips to quickly consumed the last of what remained. With that he set the glass upon the bar and stood. His legs were a bit shaky, but they would do. Helga turned to grab his glass and shot him a curious glance. He gave the brim of his hat a tip and turned towards the exit. "We'll talk more of this, I am sure..." he said, turning to the stool where the figure was just sitting. Well, wasn't that interesting? Just like that she was gone. There was no doubt that she was family. He reached back to pull his face-wrap tight before turning to the exit. It was probably a good thing that the Keep was not too far away. 2 "That was too close." "That is one way to put it..." His toes sifted through the sand of the Militia's training pit, trying his best to stand at a perfect still. This was no easy feat considering the events that occurred after leaving the tavern. The scotch wasn't exactly helping either. An elaborate sigil had been carved in the tawny sand that surrounded him on all sides. To the untrained eye it seemed to be nothing more than a chaotic spiral with him at the center, but to the woman slowly pacing around the perimeter with her staff in hand... every stroke was as if it were from an artist's brush. "You need to still yourself," she scolded, turning to glance at an errant shadow that attempted to leave the complicated spiral. "Yeah yeah..." She didn't much care for his tone. As usual, he wasn't taking things seriously, and it was only going to make the ritual take longer. "Just remember your training, Spirit Walker..." she volleyed, putting the barest hint of sarcasm on the latter part. It was not lost on him. "I never was any good at thi-" "And look where we are now," she interrupted, making another careful stroke into the sand as her eyes remained trained on the struggling piece of shadow. His brow smoothed as he exhaled another long, controlled breath. Damn woman. She wouldn't be so bad if she didn't have the troublesome tendency of being right all of the time. Despite her scolding, he was glad that she came when she did. She was the one who constructed the seal in place, and he could not re-establish it on his own. Long ago it was determined that the Shadow Death not only thrived on aggression, but it fed upon the light and all life. It sought only to consume, and to infect. Any control was little more than an illusion, and the only way to slow it down was through maintaining balance. Just a perfect balance... no problem. Maybe in a perfect world. "Be as the stone..." she offered, the calmness of her tone displacing its previous edge. In a painful slow he brought his hands together before him. He laced each finger over the other to form a simple seal as another long, controlled breath was took as he sought to clear his thoughts and empty all emotion. It was going to be a long night. 3 One would think that the breaking light of dawn would be a welcome reprieve for one bent on ridding themselves of shadow. They'd be wrong. The lids of his eyes flinched in response, shutting tightly to try and steal a single moment longer of peace. Slowly, painfully, his eyes finally opened to narrow slits as they struggled to adjust to the rising sun's light. "...sweet Baby Koar," he uttered, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth in a vain attempt to relieve the unbearable dryness. He wasn't sure if the ritual was to blame or if it was simply a hangover for the ages, but he was certain that it wasn't anything that some firewater couldn't remedy. Good old firewater. What can't it do? Looking to his hands and the seal they formed, he carefully pulled each strained finger apart. Damn, even that hurt more than it should have. His eyes dropped to the sands of the training pit. The sigil was still mostly in tact, but breezes throughout the night had done their part to erode most of the spiral away. Shaking out his hands to get the blood flowing back into his fingers, he made a quick gesture and uttered an ancient phrase. The ethereal wave quickly snapped out from where he stood, making quick work of what remained. "It worked. The seal has been put back in place," came her voice. She was settled along the Keep's western wall with the staff cradled in hand. "Mm-hm..." he droned in response, not bothering to face her as he reached his arms high over his head in a labored stretch, "But what is to stop it from happening again?" "That is up to you." "Hm, maybe I am finally catching on to that whole Seer thing..." "Because you knew I would say that?" she said quickly, sneaking it in before he could finish. "And there you go again..." A long moment of silence was shared between the two. His arms folded lazily across his chest, his eyes watching as the sun crept further and further into morning. It was a red sunrise, and everyone knows that can mean just about any damn thing to any number of people. Bad weather, bad omen, a blood-filled night... pick your poison. "This isn't over," he continued, idly pondering out loud for her benefit. "Then it is up to you to maintain the seal." "Mm-hm... that goes without saying." "If you fail? Others will suffer... others have already suffered," she condemned, her tone low as she exhaled a frustrated sigh. "I know... I know..." with a sigh to match her's He lifted a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose. Just how much longer was this little pep talk supposed to last? The persistent thrum in his aching head wasn't going anywhere in any kind of a hurry. "You will need to learn to mend the seal by yourself if it happens again. I will not return again." "How supportive," he joked. It was good his face-wrap was still in place, it probably would not go over well if she saw the smirk curled in the corner of his lips. "It was against the better judgment of the Elders for me to come at all." "Yeah, well... I know how they feel about me, so that is no surprise." "They don't fear you, Jaired..." she said with a hint of sadness, or perhaps it was remorse, "It is what you brought with you. They think you a demon." "Runs in the family, yes?" "Jaired, don't-" "Thus they forced you to rush the ritual, and sent me along my way, hm?" he managed without any hint of underlying anger, regardless of how justifiable it would have been. "The last lesson you have to learn yourself. What happened back in the Sea will be of little consequence." "Alright, alright..." he muttered with an idle wave of his hand, "What is the last lesson, then?" "Rest first. Return here when you are ready..." "When I am ready?" he questioned, finally turning towards her only to find that she had pulled another vanishing act. Not dwelling on it too long, he walked across the sands of the training pit to where she was huddled. Interestingly enough, she left behind her staff. Picking it up he gave it a quick look over. He was expecting to see a network of archaic symbols, runes, sigils, and the such. Strangely enough, it was nothing more than one of the many staffs that they kept around the pit for training purposes. "...when I am ready." 4 That was it. It came to him through an idle conversation in the park and he wasn't about to let the fleeting moment of clarity go to waste. All he said was something that he had said a hundred times before, but until now the abstract context had never displayed itself in such a visceral way. "So you think you are ready?" came the voice, to which he only offered a single nod as he pulled tight the stray lengths of linen securing his face-wrap. "Duality," was all he said in response. This prompted an arch to her brow as she observed him. "Enlighten me, Marshal, as to this 'duality' you speak of." "The shadow hides the fawn from the wolf when the light would give it away..." he explained as he strode into the loose sands of the training pit. "But the wolf must kill to fee-" "Precisely..." he interrupted, sifting his bare toes through the granules of tawny sand, "That is the cycle of things. That is the balance." "It is that simple, hm?" she questioned, regarding him with an amused smirk. "Of course not... nothing is that absolute," he answered, reaching to his back to retrieve the staff she had left behind a few nights prior, "But for the purposes of this lesson, it will do." With that he lobbed the staff towards her in a careful toss. She caught it easily and strode towards the perimeter of the training circle. Just as she did before she began drawing the elaborate spiral around him. "It will do, hm? How do you figure?" "This whole time you've been asking me to learn to push and pull at the same time," as he was already forming the familiar hand seal before him with each carefully overlapped finger, "To look one direction while watching the other..." "To maintain balance," she finished as her eyes descended to her work, the end of the staff tracing through the sand with careful precision. "Balance will be maintained no matter what I do..." he responded calmly, catching her off guard. She only showed it for a moment, but the hesitation of her staff's dealings in the sand did not go ignored, "It can't be helped." She could only nod. Ultimately she was only humoring the philosophical debate because something had to fill the void of time. The words and their meaning mattered little, as long as the concept was grasped. A means to an end, as it were. "All that said, what will you do?" she asked while making another careful mark in the sand. "What I always do..." "...and that is?" "Watch. Maybe you'll learn something." 5 She was learning something alright, she was learning just how stubborn the man could be once he set his mind to something. It was just too bad that it wasn't doing him much good. The scene before her was a picture of absolute chaos, and at its center he stood as if he were the calm eye of the storm. Writhing tendrils of shadow twisted and spun within the spiral in a determined, unified effort to escape the seal. Several long tentacles of pure black had wrapped their way around his body, anchoring him to the undulating shadow and struggling to pull him in. He was all but consumed... and if they were going to leave, they were going to take him with them. She only watched from her position against the Keep's wall, taking solace in the cold stone pressed against her back. She would not intervene. He would succeed here, or he would fail. No words of advice would reach him on any accord, and she knew all too well that he needed to learn things first hand. He was never the type that could simply be told that fire was hot... he had to burn his hand first. His brow creased in concentration as he felt himself being consumed. This was bad and getting worse in a hurry. Steeling his resolve, his fingers reformed a different seal before him. It was a subtle change, and barely perceivable, but in that instant the chains of shadow surrounding him broke free in a resounding crack. The tendrils flailed helplessly, like snapped rigging at the mercy of a storm. The act was not without consequence, however, for just as he broke their grip the shadows crept further outward along the spiral's path. This was what she meant by pushing and pulling at the same time. This was the balance he had to keep. If he pulled too much they would consume him. If he pushed too hard they would escape... and in either instance the seal would be broken and their corruption would continue. But with each misstep they gained ground, for he was but one, and they were legion... and he could not do both at the same time. It was impossible. "It is only fitting..." finally, she spoke. His concentration was still on the task at hand, but something about her words reached the back of his mind like a whisper, "That you and those like you make up for what you did." What was she talking about? His mind slipped, and the shadows began writhing faster and faster as they began to expand across the entirety of the spiral upon the sand. His hands reformed a new seal, and he began desperately pulling them back. Twisting tendrils of pure black clutched at the ground and drove into it, fighting back against his every effort with fueled resolve. "The bridge was destroyed, severing the link to the plane of shadow," she continued, stepping closer as her voice rang in the back of his mind. Other whispers joined in, the whispers of the shadowdeath, "So you'll have to do..." His concentration shattered in an instant, and the writhing mass of shadow quickly swirled out of control. All he could see was the storm of darkness surrounding him on all sides. It was like they were biding their time. Savoring the moment before closing in. "I guess I should have seen this coming..." was his response, his tone even and calm. What would be would be, and there was not much he could do about any of it at the moment. Whispered laughter was heard in the back of his mind. They were delighted, already spreading through every vein and every corner of his soul. It had been a long time since he had heard them so clearly. Not since before the seal was put in place... and it would seem that he had done a fine job breaking it. "Well done, Spirit Walker..." came her voice again, but now he could hear it for what it truly was. 6 "So it was you this whole time?" he already knew the answer to the question, but he had to buy at least a little bit of time. "And you followed every bit of the way, doing just as you were told," she responded, her familiar voice growing more warped and displaced with each word. "It would appear you are a master of your art," he said with idle annoyance, lifting a hand to give his hat a polite tip, "but you should know by now that killing me will not be easy." It was never her. He realized it now. Since the very moment the seal began to weaken, the shadows made their move. They are deception, and each step he took to re-establish the seal only served to weaken it and ultimately lead to its destruction. If he was angry about it, or disappointed with himself, he failed to show it. Dwelling was never his forte, and the problem at hand was before him and all around him... and it was a problem that needed dealing with. Good times. "You've ever been a fool. Your first mistake was resisting us," she reprimanded, the familiarity of her voice but gone as it degraded to nothing more than a sibilant whisper, "After all we did for you." "Yeah yeah..." he responded in a dryly expressed droll. He pulled from his harness the very staff she, no, it had left behind and thrust the tapered end into the sand at his feet. The voice laughed malevolently as the swirl of shadows began to coalesce into her dissolving form, replacing it with an orb of the purest black that grew with each writhing shadow as they were pulled within. A sudden weight filled the area, carrying with it the unmistakable aura of fear. The orb began to take shape, forming a horrible figure of claw and shadow. "Well damn..." was all he could muster, not helping but feel a tinge of dread at what he was witnessing. He knew the creature well, as well as the sensation that radiated from it. The very sands at his feet seemed to quiver and the shadows within the Keep yearned for the creature, bending and reaching towards it as if their intent was to join it. It was one of the Shadowfang. Most of them were killed during the war against the Queen of Shadow, but he knew that a handful had remained... he just didn't know that one was hiding so close. Though, it did make a lot of things suddenly make sense. "You still doubt that we can kill you?" the creature snarled, its maw crooked and lined with twisting teeth of undulating shadow. "Catch..." he suggested, lobbing the staff in his hand towards it in a lazy, careful arc. A terrible hand was formed, claws the size of a man erupting from each twisting shadow. The staff was cleaved into several sections as it was easily tore from the sky. It was as the pieces clattered to the ground that the monster realized that the Marshal was no longer standing before it. Rage seeped from its very pours as a deafening roar flooded the stone halls. "Damn you, Spirit Walker!" it screamed, droplets of shadow quivering away from its mass to fall to the floor. 7 He knew he wouldn't be able to hide from it long. It was a creature of shadow after all. The problem facing him now was the fact that a powerful barrier surrounded all of the Shadowfang, one that required powerful and very particular weapons to address. Weapons that he hoped to never use again. Weapons that were a long way away. "Heh..." the creature hissed, recoiling into itself as it tried to sense where he was, "That is a particular talent you learned." Its attention snapped towards the gate leading into the depths of the Keep and then lurched into the air, diving into the sands of the training pit where spiral now remained in ruin. He was already making his way through the cellar, trying to reach the underground passage that lead to the catacombs, and to the portal nexus. Just a little further. "You still think you can run from us?!" the voice boomed as the figure erupted form the shadows, writhing into form amidst the crates and cutting him off from the secret tunnel. "Who said anything about running?" he asked, his brow arched in question as he stared the beast down. It lifted its writhing claw, growling in fury as it swung with incomprehensible force to rend him where he stood. Nothing but air was struck, and nothing but the breeze was sundered. The creature glared at the spot where he was just standing, and let out another terrible roar that shook the very dust from the Keep's walls. "You sure make a lot of noise for a shadow..." he quipped dryly, well enough out of sight for the time. "You're wasting ti-" the shadow began to snarl, but it was cut short suddenly as it began to be pulled across the floor towards his voice. He was crouched beside a crate, his hands clasped together in a seal that the creature knew all too well. He was trying to pull it in? No, that was impossible. The mass of shadows erupted into a hateful mass of twisting tendrils and mangled claws that clutched to the floor, resisting his efforts with seeming ease. With a barely perceived alteration to the hand seal, the mass was suddenly flung forward and through the door of the cell, using the Shadowfang's own efforts against it. His steps were swift as he closed the distance to the cell's door, slamming it shut and sliding home the latch of the complex lock. A sudden quiver wracked the door, testing the resolve of the hinges and the reinforced steel. The roar was muffled, but understood nonetheless. "...that should buy me a little time," he mused aloud, watching as another impact threatened to knock the door free. The cell was built with glyphs in place that served to hinder magic and most supernatural means of exit... but against a Shadowfang it was only a matter of time before it would be able to force its way out. Time he would need to prepare. Suddenly the door grew quiet and the presence of the creature was no longer felt. It ran? Most interesting. He turned to leave the Keep, and his every thought weighed upon his steps. More shadows were able to escape than just the Shadowfang, and it would not return alone. Then again, he didn't intend to confront them alone either. 8 The tower was just as he had remembered it. To be quite honest, he didn't even expect it to still stand... yet here it was, and here he was. The battle was long, and it was not without casualty. Even so, he couldn't help but feel a small twinge of pride with how well everyone did, especially considering how little he offered in the way of information. His only regret was that he could never tell them the truth of how this storm came upon them. Or rather, he wouldn't. The shaft of light was still there. Right where the bridge to the plane of shadow once stood. The blood of the fallen was still fresh on the ground and he had sent everyone ahead. The Shadowdeath wanted them all to believe that it was over, that they were defeated... and defeated they were. Yet, they still lingered. They always lingered, biding their time. He reached into his munitions case and produced his trusty flask. Unlike most times he didn't simply take a long sip of the beckoning contents, instead he read the worn inscription upon it first: ...Always remember those who've gone... Sure, it didn't really apply here. It just seemed like the thing to do in a moment of such deep reflection. His shoulders shrugged despite himself, and he took from the flask a long draw. Oh firewater, surely there is no burn sweeter in all Elanthia. Recovering, he dropped the flask back into the case at his hip and turned his gaze back to the shaft of light. "Alright... suppose now is a good of a time as any," he uttered in a reverent hush, folding his hands before him as his eyes slowly shuttered to a close. He cleared his thoughts, blanked his emotions, and focused on the task at hand. It dawned on him some time after he realized that he could not win the battle alone that the same could be said of creating the seal. If he was to pull and push at the same time, he would just have to separate into two parts. What his conscious mind could not do, his subconscious would. Where his physical body faulted, his spiritual form would be there to grasp the threads. Creating balance within himself, and thus within the seal. His eyes slowly drifted open. It seemed like hours had passed, but surely it was only a few moments. Perhaps it was just him, but for some reason the shaft of light before him seemed brighter. The whispers of the shadows had gone silent, and he had no doubt that the seal was properly in place. The difference between this seal and previous was that it was made by his own hand, and one that he could remake if it should fail again. This gave him a moment's comfort, but deep down he knew that there were still others corrupted, and that the shadows would always be there... and they would always be waiting. Good times. ...the end... .jaired W.W.O.P.D. monster stats (approx unbuffed) a winged shadow-encased fiend AS: 700 (claw) DS: 464 CS: 597 (elemental) TD: 508 (empath) 440 (ranger) CvA: 25